


Impatient

by worrylesswritemore



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: I referenced a lot of in trousers, M/M, Marvin is doing more than grabbing, Pre-Canon, also like lowkey a choking kink but it is barely even there, but then it got a lot of plot, do not read if you are young please, it has explicit sex, it was going to be a pwp, it's basically a 'I caught them in the den with Marvin stuffed in Whizzer's ass', like in trousers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 07:39:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11709873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worrylesswritemore/pseuds/worrylesswritemore
Summary: "I caught them in the den with Marvinstuckin Whizzer's ass."





	Impatient

**Author's Note:**

> The college au update will be tomorrow. For now, here's whatever this is.

Marvin paces for a few more minutes before he compulsively checks his watch, his annoyance growing with each ticking minute. 

He himself couldn't get to the phone  _fast_  enough as soon as Trina and Jason closed the door behind them, dialing the other man's number even as he was still shouting half-hearted goodbyes to his family.

And Whizzer decides to make him  _wait_  like this? 

Restlessly checking his watch again, Marvin can’t help but think back to Whizzer's inflection on the phone—how flippant and bored he'd sounded, offering nothing but an indifferent _I'll try to swing by sometime then._

That conversation, Marvin is pointed to clarify, had been  _thirty minutes ago._

Marvin flops down on the couch and tries to relax, but his leg keeps jiggling and his hands keep twitching and he eventually just has to stand up and aimlessly pace around the den again. He can hardly keep still, can hardly even concentrate on anything else other than the second hand of his watch.

There's a deep restlessness forged into his bones, knotted into his muscles, stained into his skin. It eats at him, looms over him like a suffocating shadow.

After awhile, Marvin entertains the notion of turning the tables just this once, of going out and finding another heartless pretty boy to sink his hands and teeth into for the night, of leaving _Whizzer_ cold and waiting on the street corner while _Marvin_ gets his rocks off with someone else.

The thought is idle and frivolous, and Marvin can't even feign sincerity.

Maybe months ago, it would have been easier, less  _inconceivable_. He used to do it all the time—before Whizzer. He'd feign working late and go to a seedy bar; he’d meet some vapid man with a cruel smile but nice hands and strike up a conversation with him that'd only last long enough for a subtle invitation for a quick, dirty fuck in the restroom. It was loveless and rough and _empty_ —but it always got the job done and left Marvin more satisfied than he'd ever been with his wife. The routine had suited him just fine—for awhile.

But then Marvin let himself be  _weak_ , let go of  _control_ , allowed one of those vapid men to sink their nails into his chest and  _twist_

.

And these days, Marvin can't imagine being with  _anyone_  except Whizzer Brown.

Marvin checks his watch again, spitefully remarking to himself how much that sentiment is bitterly unrequited.

:: - ::

Marvin is two thumbs deep into a new bottle of whiskey when he hears the tell-tale banging on his door. Whizzer's lack of discreetness makes Marvin wince instinctively and hurriedly answer the door. He has  _neighbors_ , after all.

As soon as Marvin opens up, Whizzer pushes past him and strolls inside, without so much as waiting for an invitation.

His disregard causes the anger already simmering in Marvin's gut to grow hotter.

Through narrowed eyes, Marvin watches as the man lets out a shudder, pulling his arms close to his chest, "Shit, it's cold as blue balls out there."

Marvin thinks about being _spiteful_ , asking him just whose dick was so important that he’d leave Marvin  _waiting_. He stops himself before the snide demand leaves his lips, knowing by now that Whizzer will just think his jealousy is exasperating, that it’d only make Marvin look  _pathetic_.

Instead, he just closes the door and says briskly, "You deserve to be cold—just look at you. You're not even wearing a  _coat_."

Whizzer settles into a smirk, throwing his arms out and drawing attention to the thin, tantalizing material of his shirt, "You're really trying to fault me for dressing pretty for you?" But that's a _lie_ , isn't it? He didn't dress for  _Marvin_. He doesn't do  _anything_  for Marvin.

"I don't know why you'd bother," Marvin points out curtly, "You're just gonna be taking it all off anyway."

Dropping his arms back down to his sides, Whizzer gives him a withering look, "Your lack of foreplay is always so disappointing." Whizzer’s gaze travels up and down Marvin's body, and even though his mouth twists at his supposed abysmal style, he doesn't look _disappointed_ to see him.

It's pathetic—how that idle observation makes Marvin preen, just a little.

"Really?" Marvin challenges, putting a pause on his anger and taking a step towards Whizzer, "Because every time I try to take things slow, you're moaning for me to hurry it up."

Whizzer abruptly turns away from him, but when Marvin settles his hands on his trim waist, he doesn't brush him off, just remarks lowly, "That's part of the foreplay."

Marvin leans over, mouthing the words into the crook of Whizzer's neck, "I can't help that I'm direct." He worries his teeth at the juncture of Whizzer's shoulder and neck, the taste of the man's skin sweet and salty on his tongue. 

He purposely bites a little too hard, smirking at how it makes Whizzer jump.

Whizzer scoffs, but the slight tremble in his voice proves that he's more affected than he's putting on, "Direct? More like  _impatient_."

Marvin draws back and forces Whizzer to turn around, walking him back until the back of Whizzer's legs hit the edge of the couch. Marvin slowly drags his hands up the planes of Whizzer's chest—loving the feeling of hard, firm muscle underneath the thin, expensive shirt—until they rest against the hollow of his throat.

He anchors his hands there, not necessarily pressing down but maintaining a loose grip nonetheless. He watches Whizzer's breath quicken, just a little bit, and his cheeks flush. Wildly, Marvin thinks about tightening his grip, wanting to see the shuddering breath catch in Whizzer's pretty throat. Not enough to hurt him, of course, or leave any bruising. But still, enough to surprise him, to make him  _choke_  for a second, to make Marvin feel more—in  _control_.

Just the thought makes his cock jump.

Shaking himself from the daze, Marvin moves his hands down to toy at the buttons of Whizzer's shirt, methodically unbuttoning while maintaining his eyes on him.

Marvin instructs firmly but not unkindly, "Kiss me."

"See what I mean?" Whizzer says with a low chuckle that sounds forced, his hooded eyes pointedly looking down at Marvin's hands. Marvin watches as a muscle in Whizzer's throat jumps, as if his neck is begging for a fist around it.

He cuts his eyes back up at Marvin, sneering, " _Impatient_."

Marvin responds to the barb by ripping the rest of Whizzer’s shirt open, the remaining buttons breaking off and scattering on the floor. Whizzer makes a noise of protest, but then Marvin's hands move back to loosely grasp his throat and he abruptly cuts off.

But he still manages to look arrogant, challenging, in  _control_. It's always unsettled Marvin that Whizzer can always look like he's the one calling the shots, regardless of position he's in—be it looming _over_ him or on his knees _for_ him.

Impulsively, Marvin tightens his grip around Whizzer's throat, pressing just enough to catch his breath. Though this is far from the first time they've toyed with this type of play, it seems to get Whizzer every time—the smirk drops from his face, his arrogance briefly flickers. Whizzer's eyes are wide and dark, and they are directed solely at Marvin, impatient for his next move.

Marvin abruptly drops his hands down to Whizzer's chest, smirking a little at how his heartbeat is one of a rabbit.

"Kiss me." Marvin instructs again, leaving no room for argument this time.

Giving in, Whizzer leans in and captures Marvin's mouth with his own, making the kiss _wet_ and _hot_ and _filthy_. The touch of Whizzer's lips immediately relieves all the tension that Marvin has built up since the last time they'd done this, like all Marvin's problems can be solved (or at the very least ignored) just by the touch of a handsome man.

Marvin returns the kiss roughly, trying to cover up how boneless Whizzer makes him within just a second flat.

Because despite all the man’s many,  _many_  shortcomings, he has to admit that at least Whizzer has a very,  _very_  talented tongue. 

When they break the kiss, they don't move far apart, breathing heavily into each other's mouths as if concerned with wasting all other oxygen. Whizzer's hands have already started to unbuckle Marvin's belt, so while he's trying to take his pants off, Marvin leans down and presses wet, bruising kisses to Whizzer's neck and collarbone. He hasn't forgotten where Whizzer has also been tonight, who Whizzer has also undoubtedly rendered boneless and sated. Marvin is desperate to chase away all memories of those other men, of reclaiming every inch of this man's body as his own. 

"That's not fair," Whizzer bites out in the middle of a choked moan, effectively tugging both Marvin's pants and underwear down with one deft pull, "I never get to mark you."

"That's not how this works." Marvin reminds tersely against his purpling skin, ignoring how the idea nonetheless gives him pause. 

Because he  _would_  really like that, actually. He'd like that reminder of Whizzer, of that pretty mouth, of just what that pretty mouth can  _do_. He'd like to have bruises on his skin, decorating his neck like a medallion. He'd like the assurance, that what they're doing right now is  _real_.

Pointedly, Marvin sucks another mark into Whizzer's skin, just at the base of his throat. Whizzer makes a noise, halfway in between annoyed and aroused.

"Why do you do that?" He demands lowly, and Marvin should give him a bullshit answer—one that assures Whizzer that this means nothing, that  _they_  are nothing.

The admission slips out of his mouth, and though he tries to hide it with wry humor, the sincerity is palpable, "Don't want you to move along and forget about me after we finish."

Against his better judgement, he cuts his eyes up at Whizzer, surprised but pleased to find that the admission has made Whizzer's cruel, dark eyes soften a little under the fluorescent lighting.

In response, Whizzer crudely gropes Marvin's ass, but when he speaks, his voice is light and fond—border-lining on sweet, "Marv, you're not easy to forget." The sincerity of the statement is ambiguous, so Marvin tries not to take the remark too close to heart.

Marvin unzips Whizzer's pants and pulls them down, pointedly wanting to get the show back on the road. Taking the hint, Whizzer's vague, half-formed expression dissolves back into a careful mask of arrogance and stone.

Stumbling over to the couch, Marvin pushes Whizzer onto the cushions, not even bothering to get their pants past their ankles as he immediately falls on top of him.

"You're not even gonna fuck me in the bed?" Whizzer demands teasingly, eyes darkening with need as Marvin immediately gets the lube out of his pocket and slicks up his fingers, "Don't start treating me like a whore now, Marvin." But Whizzer turns to lie on his stomach anyway without further protest, giving Marvin easy access to his entrance but not his expression. 

"You can have the bed when you've earned it." Marvin says, and before Whizzer can mouth off again, his finger teases the rim of his entrance. Anything that Whizzer was going to say is bitten off into a loud, throaty moan—in not quite pleasure but not necessarily discomfort either. Whizzer just sounds overwhelmed, the abrupt feeling of intrusion stealing his breath away and rendering him momentarily wordless.

“What was that?” Marvin says innocently, smirking at the dark look Whizzer throws over his shoulder, “I didn’t quite get what you were saying.”

“Asshole.” Whizzer says but doesn’t fight him any longer, just turns back around and rests his forehead against the soft armrest of the couch.

Marvin spends a long time prepping him—perhaps even longer than really necessary. Marvin is never one to rush _this_ —stealing those needy groans and labored gasps from Whizzer’s mouth, watching the muscles in Whizzer’s back jump and quiver, feeling his own desire burning like hot coals in the fire of his groin.

After awhile though, Whizzer starts whining, pushing back on his fingers, " _Now_."

"You haven't earned it," Marvin snaps darkly, still mesmerized by how his fingers disappear into the fold of the man's body, "You made me  _wait."_

“Stop being petty,” Whizzer snaps, “Now fuck me before I leave and find someone else who will.” That thought is so repellant, so _disgusting_ , that it has Marvin immediately dislodging his fingers and slicking himself up. The loss makes Whizzer sigh and squirm, but he isn’t left empty for long. Marvin braces his hands on either side of Whizzer’s head and lines himself up, teasing the tip just a little and shuddering at how his body aches with the _need_ of it.

Whizzer feels it too, and when Marvin immediately stops, overwhelmed by the tightness, he sounds like he’s nearly sobbing, his voice thick and uncontrolled, "Jesus, Marv,  _please_. I gotta have you."

"You already have me." Marvin confesses quietly, without even thinking about it..The confession is too honest, too sincere, and they both know that he's talking about something bigger than what they're doing right now. Distracting Whizzer from his verbal slip up, Marvin pushes deeper, trying to lose himself in the feeling as well.

Even with lots of lube and prepping, it isn’t easy, but Whizzer doesn’t complain. He just shudders and moans, just  _taking it all_. Fuck, he's so good at that, and he _looks_ and _feels_ so good when he does it. Marvin's suddenly reminded of why he keeps him around.

For a moment, after Marvin is submerged, they just lie there, suspended in the overwhelming sensation. Marvin feels his own eyes bulge and breathing stutter, and he looks down at Whizzer for an anchor to reality but that isn’t a good idea because just the sight of the man like _this_ makes Marvin almost come immediately.

" _Move_." Whizzer demands tightly after a beat, shaking Marvin from his awed admiration.

"Impatient." Marvin scolds pointedly, and he can practically feel Whizzer's eye roll. 

It doesn't take long to find their momentum—one that is fast enough to chase the high yet still slow enough to enjoy the feel of it. Marvin thrusts hard and dirty, hearing his own choked noises in the back of his throat but unable to suppress them. And Whizzer just takes it, rocks back into it, _loves_ it.

Aiming for a better angle, Marvin shifts slightly, and he knows that he’s found the spot when Whizzer abruptly shouts, his body convulsing as if struck by lightning. He starts pushing back even harder, trying to chase the dizzying euphoria, " _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck._ ”

Marvin doesn't relent, feeling the tell-tale signs of a deep simmer rising within him and threatening to boil over. He can feel Whizzer getting close too, his breathing erratic and hard and intermixed with telling little moans.

He's so focused on those moans that he doesn't hear the key turn into the lock, and he doesn't stop fucking into his pretty boy until he hears a loud, earth-shattering gasp.

As if in sync, Whizzer and Marvin stop everything and look directly at _Trina_.

 _Trina,_ who has a perfect view of her husband, bent over and fucking into another man.

 _Trina,_ who _should not be home right now_ —who should be _miles_ and _miles_ away, staying at her parents’ house for the weekend.

 _Trina,_ who is sagging against the doorframe, as if that is the only thing holding her to the ground.

 _Trina,_ whose mouth is frozen in a silent scream.

Marvin doesn't think that it could get any worse until he feels Whizzer suddenly _come_ with a startled gasp, as if unable to hold it in any longer.

"Sorry." He says belatedly after he finishes, staring straight at Marvin's wife—with Marvin _still inside of him._

The bastard doesn't sound sorry at all.

Marvin abruptly pulls out, ignoring Whizzer's hiss of protest and ache. He looks at Trina, ready to offer some sort of—hell, he doesn’t even fucking know. An excuse? A shift of blame? An apology?

But Trina isn't even looking at him; she's staring at Whizzer, probably remembering all the times he's joined them for dinner, that he’s ate her food and laughed at her dumb jokes, that he’s played catch with her son.

"Tr—Trina, Baby," Marvin stutters lamely, ignoring Whizzer's sudden sneer and eye roll, "What—What are you doing  _home_ , Sweetheart?"

Trina _finally_ looks at him, and he gets a glimpse at the devastation, the anger, the  _hurt_. It guts him.

But then all of that fades abruptly, the shutters behind her eyes closing shut.

Her gaze turns resigned, dead.

"I forgot to take my medication with me." Trina tells him, flat and detached.

Marvin hurriedly pulls his pants and underwear up from his ankles. Ignoring the naked boy on their couch, he walks over to his wife, taking her gently by the arm and trying to mask his surprise when she lets him.

"I, uh—I think it's in the medicine cabinet." Marvin says unnecessarily, tugging Trina along, "I'll help you look."

As they stiffly walk out of the den and down the hall, Marvin wants to say— _something_. He wants to fill the deafening silence up with anything, to drown out the sound of footsteps on their hardwood floor because they sound like Marvin’s death march.

Trina stays silent behind him, but she lets him lead her by the hand into the bathroom.

When they get into the bathroom, Trina pushes him out of the way and opens up the mirror above the sink, rummaging through the medications until she finds her bottle of pills. She needs to take them every night, Marvin vaguely remembers, but he’s at a loss as to what they’re for. Marvin probably knew, at some point. Or maybe he’s never really listened in the first place.

He finally gets his foot out of his mouth, trying to ask casually, “How’s, uh—How’s your mom and dad?”

“Fine,” Trina replies immediately, not even allowing Marvin to punctuate his question, “I think they were relieved when I told them you weren’t able to come—that you were _working through the weekend.”_ When she slams the mirror shut, Marvin is surprised that it doesn’t break.

Marvin opens his mouth, wanting to explain, but all that comes out is, “Trina, I’m sorry.”

Trina looks at him like she wants to laugh. And cry.

“No, you’re _not_.” Trina says hysterically, “You’re not sorry. You always say you are, but you’re never _really_ sorry. Do you even know what ‘sorry’ _means_?”

Marvin narrows his eyes at her, the insult to his intelligence stinging, “Of course I—“

“Sorry means that you regret _doing it,”_ Trina answers roughly, “Not that you regret _getting caught.”_

Marvin doesn’t know how she does it—how she can look so strong and terrifying right now while also looking like she’s falling apart.

He feels his defensiveness drop, and his voice softens, “Trina, I—“

“Don’t bring them into the _house_ ,” Trina scolds suddenly, as if talking of unruly pets with muddied paws, “That’s _all_ I ask of you, Marvin. Just don’t bring the men _here_. I mean, aren’t there—like—bars or something for…for _that_?”

All the air has left Marvin’s lungs.

“ _Them?_ ” He repeats too loudly, his brain short-circuiting, “There’s no—Why would you—I _don’t_ \---“

But Trina won’t play dumb, no matter how much she may want to.

“Our _son_ sleeps in this house.” She continues tersely, broken up over the two linked ideas, “You can’t do _that_ here. Jesus, Marvin, _can you not give me that at least?”_

Marvin can hardly believe what she’s saying, how _willing_ she is to accept that Marvin is _cheating_ on her—with a _man,_ no less. Or, as she’s in the belief, _several men._

It almost _offends_ him, how _easy_ she’s taking all of this. Almost like she already _knew_ —or at the very least, suspected.

But that—that can’t be _possible_. He’s been so careful in his lies, so meticulous in his planning…

But maybe none of that ever really mattered. Maybe she just _knew_ anyway; maybe she could just take one look at him—at his eyes, at his hands, at his lips—and know that he’s never really belonged to her.

And it’s all over now, isn’t it? He can’t lie anymore now that she _knows_. He can’t just call it a one-off, an experiment, a _phase_. He can’t pretend that he’s ever looked at her or _any_ girl like he’s always found himself looking at men.

For the first time, he thinks about the possibility of getting a divorce; he thinks about not having to pretend anymore; he thinks about maybe embracing a life that he’s only ever lived in the shadows.

He’s devastated when those awful, awful thoughts make him shudder—in _relief_.

He becomes aware that Trina is looking at him through the mirror, her eyes cold and shuttered.

Marvin asks, “How long are you staying at your parents’ house now?” _Forever,_ he imagines her saying, _forever and ever._

And he _wants_ that to be the answer, he realizes with horror. The thought of being a family man has _always_ appealed to him, but now this _new_ intrusion of query—being selfish and alone in that big bed and free from that whiny girl with wandering hands—is dizzying in its unbridled appeal.

“I already told you. It’s only for the weekend.” Trina says abruptly, startling Marvin, “Jason has school Monday.”

Marvin’s stomach drops, “You’re coming home?”

Trina turns to face him, and Marvin realizes that she’s trying to pretend to be normal, but there’s still the ever apparent tremble in her voice, “Of course I am. Where else would I go?”

Gripping her bottle of pills tightly, Trina walks briskly out of the bathroom, and Marvin can only follow her. When they get back to the den, Marvin and Trina notice that Whizzer is _gone_ , the only evidence of his previous presence being the buttons scattered on the hardwood and the sticky mess on the sofa.

Marvin doesn’t know what he had expected Whizzer to do in this situation, really. He shouldn’t be disappointed that he didn’t stick around. Really, he should be _relieved_ , given how uncensored Whizzer usually speaks. He’d probably only make the situation worse, if he had stayed.

But. Still. Marvin had been hoping that he did stay, that he didn’t just get dressed and _run away_ like he always does. Because at least having Whizzer here would have made Marvin feel a little less…

Well, _alone_.

But he’s always sorta felt that way, so he supposes that he should be used to it by now.

“He didn't have to stick around for you to pay him?” Trina asks, scathing. The insult actually makes Marvin flinch.

She deposits the bottle into her purse and gives him one last, hateful look before turning and walking to the door. And Marvin doesn’t know why he tries to stop her. He’s never really desired her company—even before he was forced to marry her.

But right now, he doesn’t want to be alone, and he knows that if he calls Whizzer, he’ll probably just leave him waiting— _again_.

“Wait, we’re not going to— _talk_ about…” He doesn’t want to name it, “ _this_?”

“We already did,” Trina says impatiently, her back still facing him, “I said just don’t bring them to the house anymore. And _never_ mention it to me or—God forbid, _Jason_.” She adds, after a beat, “And try to be a bit more _discreet_ , Dear. I think the neighbors have begun to suspect as well.”

Marvin shakes his head when she twists the knob, “Trina, _stop_. We need to—“

 _“This never happened,”_ Trina says tersely, adding, “And I want that _couch_ out by the curb when we get back. Jason is not to be _anywhere_ near that thing.”

He tries to grab her but she’s already bolted and slammed the door right in his face, leaving him alone to another sleepless night.

But Marvin should be _relieved_ , shouldn’t he? After all, he’s off the hook. Trina is too self-deluded, too _fragile_ to handle a divorce. She’d rather be miserable in comfort than ever take a risk and try something new—even if that something would even make her happy.

So Marvin is free to continue this charade. He can still have a dedicated wife, a tight-knit family, a dirty secret. He can have it _all_ , can’t he?

Marvin looks around at the empty house filled with empty objects owned by empty people.

And he realizes that _this_ isn’t having it all. He’ll still have to hold _her_ and go to bed with _her_ and wake up to _her_. He’ll still have to _play house_ , except now everyone will know that he’s only _playing_.

And that doesn’t make it any _better_ , really. Marvin could argue that it even makes it _worse_.

Marvin _should_ be relieved. Happy, even. But instead, he just feels hollow and aching—like always.

Marvin cleans the come off of the couch and picks up the buttons. He walks around the house, and even though it’s big and empty, it suffocates him.

And Marvin feels more helpless than he has in _years_. But he doesn’t do anything about it—not tonight.

Tonight, he just sits down on the couch, turns on the television, and waits for his family to come home.

**Author's Note:**

> It got very monologue and character study at the end. Originally, I was going to end it with Trina walking in and then abruptly cut it off but then the insult "You didn't have to pay him?" came to me and I really, really wanted Trina to say that. That does not explain why I launched into a Marvin monologue, sooooo idk where that came from. I just have a lot of Feelings about Marvin.


End file.
